Ahimsa
by Shiki Sha
Summary: So this is a non-violence!fic, with a heavy influence in attitude from my culture, and the fact that it's an SI-fic should help that. Finally, be warned: as I literally have a day to write this, there will probably be a better/edited version of this put up. So, you can read that instead. Just to make this clear, this is a Divergent SI fanfiction. For SI Week 2016, tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

A Writing Exercise – for SI Week 2016, Tumblr. [short title: Ahimsa]

 **NOTE BEGINNING:** So this is a **non-violence!fic** , with a _heavy influence_ in attitude from my culture, and the fact that it's an SI-fic should help that. I am also unsure if this will be continued, but I have wanted to write a pacifist/anti-violence Harry. I want to try and make sure this does not become an In-Name-Only fic, but a Divergent fiction. I would also like to make it a happier interpretation of the storyline (if it gets that far) – but understand it will not be possible the whole way through…however a more modern/different cultural-influence might make a bit of an impact. Nevertheless, I would like to point out that I have a real want to make a utopian-esque fiction piece, simply because there is so much sadness/negativity in the world and I'd like to see a happier interpretation…But whilst I will fight that for this fiction piece, if it does swing that way – please feel free to point that out. Feedback will be appreciated! Genre-wise, I think this will start out very small in some aspects; a raising-Harry fic, in fact. Another point- I am trying to get the context right, but I am a 90s kid – I have sources from the 80s, but that's all.

This is a self-insert fiction but I'm not sure if I want my SI to know about the storyline already or to just respond as I would in this scenario… Finally, be warned: as I literally have a day to write this, there will probably be a better/edited version of this put up. So, you can read that instead. Just to make this clear, this is a **Divergent SI fanfiction**

 **NOTE ENDING.**

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Harry remembers the loud bad noise. It _hurt._ There was a loud crying in his ears afterwards, and they hurt lots. He thought there should be more mess, and sad and angry people 'round him, and it grew inside his whole body like a filling air balloon or a big wash of water like the sea – until it suddenly went. But when he looked 'round because maybe he _did a bad thing again Boy_ there was no Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon.

Harry really started crying then, because he didn't know where he was, he was tired and his ears _hurted_ , in big harsh sobs.

On December 17th, 1983 whilst Harrods, and the surrounding street filled with Christmas shoppers, in one part of West London was being evacuated, on another street holiday goers- often families themselves, found it easy to spot the small lad standing by himself, clothes too big for the chill overcast weather, covered in soot and crying his poor little eyes out.

He was promptly approached by the closer families and surrounded. The parents and adults exchanged brief looks. Some looked about for his family members, or listened out for any distressed parents calling for a child. They hastily pulled nosy children back, he could be hurt. Someone pushed through the silent pause, a middle-aged Indian woman, dressed in long coat and boots like many others. She approached the child with a cautious look around at the other adults, like for permission. When no one stopped her, she talked gently to the boy, comforting him. Seeing that someone had gone to the boy, the adults talked in hushed arguments on what to do and picked up.

Harry looked at the girl who crouched in front of him from between his curled fingers. He was cold. She looked…a little like Aunt Petunia did sometimes when Dudley fell over. She smiled at him gently. It made the skin around her big eyes crinkle together. When she spoke her voice was high but scratchy. 'Hiya, little one,' she said. She started to take off her bright fuzzy scarf, 'it's going to be OKAY now, alright?' She slowly wraps her scarf, wool, around his shoulders and then his neck and over his head. She rubs over his ears with her hands gently. She does not look like she's going to cry anymore. Her brown eyes look at him, 'my name is Namita'. Harry can't help his surprise, his eyes open wide and his mouth maybe opens but just a little, it's just so _weird_. Is the nice lady gonna go now? And then he sees real happiness is in her eyes at that, 'yes, its different right? NA-mee-thah. Namita.'

She looks at him some more, and says calmly, 'what is your name? Not that' she smiles again, 'I don't really _really'_ her voice goes higher on really, it's fun, ' -like calling you little one, but you have a name, right? What is it love?'

Harry feels tired and lost and she's been nice, so maybe she won't be mean when he tells her, so he says '…Harry'. It comes out quiet and hissy, like a wind breeze. He instinctively ducks his head into the warm scarf, pushing his glasses up a bit.

A soft weight touches his head. He looks up, it's _her arm_. She pats his head gently, smiles and says 'that's a lovely name.' She looks a little _shy_ when she says, 'it's nice to meet you, Harry'. She puts her hand out again, like this is serious business, and Harry shakes her hand. Her hands are so large, and the big palms are warm. She doesn't let go. Looking at him, Harry, she asks, 'you look cold? Would you like a cuddle, Harry? I promise my cuddles aren't too bad.' She looks hopeful. Harry supposes he could maybe try. Aunt Petunia never gives him hugs, but he's seen them before. She pulls him gently by his hand to her, her other arm going around to wrap around him, along his shoulders and back. Harry puts his head on the middle of her chest, her head is on his head. Harry thinks he is a little warmer. 'Is this okay Harry?'

A big part of Harry has been sleeping until now, and suddenly it's like he can think properly again, and all his feelings come back. Harry nods and starts sniffing and crying and he is so tired , this is so nice. Why can't he have this? He wants cuddles and this lady to give them lots. Harry stops crying. It's so comfy. He pulls on her open coat side, and the lady opens her coat and wraps it around him. 'There, there, little one,' she says softly, rocking him side to side a little. 'It will be okay' she whispers, swallowing. Harry can hear her gulp. She rubs his back in circles. It warms him. Harry rubs his cold nose and face into her jumper. The murmurs fade further into the background.

They stay like this for a little while. Then, 'Harry, sweetie,' she whispers against his ear, moving her position, 'are you hurting anywhere? Do you have any ouch-es, or pain?'

Harry feels sleepy now, but shakes his head no. Because not really. This is much better. 'Okay, I am going to pick you up now, okay?'

'Okay', Harry yawns, he puts his face sideways on her shoulder when she picks him up, still wrapped in her coat. Harry goes to sleep holding her soft jumper.

Namita picked up the little boy whose weight is barely there with an ache in her chest. All she has to do is shift him up a little; he's so small and light. Namita stops that train of thought right there, for now, because tears do no good now. Hush hush. She supports his upper back with one hand and carries him with her other hand against her hip. She looks around at the other parents. Some have left from the back.

A man steps forward, and presumably his wife. 'We've called the police, they should be over soon.'

'Apparently there was an incident around the corner so all the coppers were called over there.'

'- Yeah, all the Brass are there right now', another man confirms grimly, moustache bristling.

Namita licked her teeth and glanced down at the little tot. 'Well, they're taking too long,' she murmured. 'It's been about ten minutes, and I need to get this little one checked on.' Louder she called out, 'tell the Brass sorry for me, yeah? We'll head over to the Met now. Anyone want to come with, who feels they can help with?'

There was a brief silence as all conferred adults left –others had popped off once things were being sorted, and seemed to be under way; citing other kids needing in, or others back home waiting, and needing to get Christmas food and shopping home.

In the end there were about twelve adults around still focused on the situation.

'…Alright; I'd bett'r do then, an' come with?' said a middle to elderly aged man, wearing a peacoat and a newsboy cap.

So off we headed.

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Comments and feedback are good. This is a rough draft but I'm running out of time. This is for SI week 2016 on tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"The first step toward success is taken when you refuse to be a captive of the environment in which you first find yourself." -Mark Caine

 **Notes:**

Where: our SI makes a stand. _This chapter was hard to write, to decide on. I am researching for the following chapters, and this quote, well, is relevant (written above)._

 _There are many quotes this chapter; listed (after the Divine Comedy by Alighieri) in order by whom, and that are equally not mine. Kalam, Jobs, Anonymous, Vidal Sassoon, Robert Frost, Unknown, Picasso, Les Brown, C. R. Davis, E. Nightingale._

Reminder: This is a non-violence!fic, with a heavy influence (at times, more obviously) in attitude from my faith, and culture based off of it (which is debateable; e.g. some think that the caste system is religious: it's not, but the debate is whether it's included anyway or not. It should not be, is not worldwide excluding India, insofar as I am aware), which is pluralistic; I also was not raised in India, so there is also opportunity for comparison of social norms presented (sometimes: excused) in light of this faith, and where possible (everywh-) adaptation. Which is a big part of the culture/faith, incidentally! :D

 **Triggers/Warnings:** _Not this chapter?_

 _Chapter 2:_

I was ruminating a great deal. Among those nebulous, buzzing hornets-for-thoughts, was an argument. Somewhere, a debate was happening inside of my head. It was a big decision. In some cultures, when you saved a life you were responsible for it thereafter; in this case that would _literally be the case_ , too. More immediate and extreme, perhaps also.

There were also thoughts that brought up quotes; words from people, their own beliefs, their own little wisdoms, passed down; some were condensed and or plucked to what they were, others were languorous and all the more beautiful and appealing – but not necessarily true- for it, some were ancient, aged-well, in the form of proverbs, that had stuck with me, called up, from the depths of the hollow slick, cheap-but-shiny colander that was my mind – or my mind's eye's representation of my mind. Thoughts like:

Life is not about finding yourself. It is about creating yourself. That was said, or written, by a person called Lolly Daskal.

Always do something every day that scares you…Nothing in the world is so common as unsuccessful people with talent…

Try not to become a person of success, but a person of value. That one was by Albert Einstein…

…For now we near the stream of blood, where those who injure others violently, boil (Inferno, Canto 12);

Your avarice [and wrath, I add mentally even in my own mind, a soundless whisper] afflicts the world, it tramples on the good, lifts up the wicked (Inferno, Canto 19)…

...Love is the seed in you of every virtue (Purgatorio, Canto 17).

Those were lines from Danta Alighieri in Divine Comedy

…Thinking should be your capital asset (misquoted; should become) – Abdul Kalam - …innovation distinguishes between a leader and a follower – Steve Jobs…you can do anything but not everything….

(and the voices wash over me as I listen…and think)

In my faith, the point was to save life, if I related it back to the proverb. Most people would think of karma. I swallowed. But there was more to it than that, of course. This would be responsibility (duty- dharma); a whole person relying on me, for guidance, protection, lessons, care, support, advice, basic rights - food, water, shelter, healthcare, so on. Healing. This was also adoption. A child.

I took a moment of silence.

I am alone here; single and female (the Dharmashastras, taken literally would look down upon this, but it was written by a man who may have had a slight prejudice towards women), in the 1980's, of clear Indian heritage/features, female. All possible set-backs to potentially providing for the little one. The female point deserved two mentions.

But also, as a single female, I would have no traditional means of assimilating the child into the line of ancestors, the family. Traditionally, it was for the spouse to assemble kinsmen, to announce his initiation or make burnt offerings to the Gods in our heart of the home (datta homam, where we would burn ghee, clarified butter as a sacrifice by fire); children were had not just as a family obligation, or a completion of part of our dharma, our duties, our purpose, but also to help keep our ancestors' sparks(atman) nourished(called pinda and tarpan, for the souls of our ancestors in this life)...honoured, call it what you will, some believed. This was according to the Dharmashastras, a role for boys to do. There would be no-one to recite the Vyahritis. Funeral rites were not really applicable here, but had to be helped by the menfolk of a family as they nourished souls, to ensure the departing soul reached the correct destination. They were the link on the Earthly plane of existence.

Religiously the meaning behind the words would support me, I believe. There is not really a question, almost - but I need to be able to provide for him, to not cause him any more mental/emotional harm, too (ahimsa- non-violence). I would need to teach him about his likely faiths also, so he could choose. I mean, we are encouraged to adopt needy or in trouble/distressed children. That was in the sacred texts. The other stuff was from sages, though bits from the scriptures also - in the stories, the Epics. The Puranas have tales: of Lord Krishna (his foster mother was Yashoda, from his mother Devaki); in the Mahabharata Kunti was daughter of Sursen adopted by his cousin Kuntibhaj; Sita (from the story of 'Rama and Sita') was adopted by Janaka.

The only place where success comes before work is in the dictionary, I have many more miles to go before I can sleep, I can sleep when I'm dead, I should only put off for tomorrow what I can die today not having done; too many of us are not living our dreams because we are living our fears (eyes snap open). (Resolve and awareness supersede me; I am taken over). The road to success and the road to failure are almost exactly the same (sometimes). We become what we think about most of the time, and that's the strangest secret (I feel joy well up, and a grin twitches at my lip; I don't begrudge, have need to hide or miser any happiness that comes my way, so I let it out).

…It's not what you (not just) look at that matters, it's what you see (not just).

And finally, I spoke aloud, reciting, voice strengthening with that hearty resolve, but not loud, "When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." - _Audre Lorde_

 _The Mother is the protector of the child (or son). She is called Sura, for looking after the child. "For the point of view of reverence for looking after due, a teacher is tenfold superior to a mere lecturer, a father, a hundredfold to a teacher and a mother a thousandfold to a father." Manu, Smriti said that._

I am resolved.

I decided I would take Harry, if he would have me, and if he would – then he'd keep me. I almost bit my lip, then didn't. I paused mid-stride (power stride!). I carefully didn't smile (see, control, me) – and then did, because joy is something to be cherished-by-use. I continued my thought process. But for as long as I'm with him, I'll give all I have to see him safe. I felt the promise in those words, strong, heady…weighted. I squinted briefly – only a second had passed, and then –

A glow lit up the corridor.

A magically binding contract? I hadn't sworn on my magic (I didn't know I'd had any to swear on or by in the first instance)! I'd just…sworn… on…" _all_ that I am." I whispered. Oh. I checked, rubber-necking, if anyone was looking through the small, gridded with plastic, windows at the tops of the white- off white with age- doors. No silhouettes against the glare from their lightbulbs wasting filters. Er. No sounds either. Oh. So,…That counts, then. Good. I'll make sure Harry knows that that's possible, then. I don't imagine solemn oaths have an age limit as such, that'd apply to him, what with his magical capacity being on the larger side. Was size indicated by age a rule not just to humans/beings then?

I knocked upon the door.

They'd separated us, when we'd first come in, just barely shared the naked bones of the matter, just barely passed our introductions. The man who gave us a ride had been taken in first, just before us, and left not five minutes later. He'd wished me, us, luck and said, with a comforting gesture, a hand on my shoulder, and a tip of his imaginary hat, and a wink and smile for the little one, for Harry, "that'll do, lass; there'll be no need ta panic. These gaffers're dec'nt folk, they are 'n' they won' hur' you or th' kid a bi'. Chin up." His accent had thickened, with the relaxation, strangely enough.

I thought accents only do that when a person's nervous or angry. And with that said, he'd moved as if he'd be off.

I must've said that aloud, though, because, and I could feel Harry relaxed, now a bit, looking curiously elsewhere, he shifted with his whole body, so that not just his head turned, and the boy was on my lap and halfway into the too-soft cushiony seated setty's, curled up, bundled up, against my side (a nice policeman had offered me and thankfully given him a thick wool blanket). Harry wasn't paying attention. Anyways, because the elderly man leaned in slightly and said, in undertones, "know what you're goin' t' do wit' 'im?" He gave me a cautionary, wise look. "You can choose to keep 'im, and likely they'll let you: no clue who he is, do they have. But" and here was the reason for the caution and weariness peaking out there, right here, "it don't look good, a single woman, young, beautiful –" here he smiled a little, a little apologetic at the nerve, perhaps, "woman.." and here he got strict again, and he'd be wincing if he were anyone else, perhaps, "of colour too" unspoken was Harry was Caucasian. Very much so. "with a child."

Got it. You can have him, but there'll be trouble; the petty kind maybe, that pecks at you or cuts a little at a time til youre maimed and you didn't notice til too late and you're scarred or bleeding all over the place. Or the dangerous kind. His lovely eyes were weary and sad. He just looked at me. I think he saw in my face my choice. I felt my lips thin a moment, thought it through : he's helping me, hes only helped me, he's telling the truth. And I am a truth seeker. No lies. He didn't deserve my spine at him. Then un-thinned them, showed him my chin and then smiled, letting it gentle my eyes after a moment.

"I have decided, though thank you. …Thank you." I smiled wider, squeezed his hand gently between two of mine. "You've been very kind; I'm glad to have met you, Sir."

"no, no, none o' tha', okay?" He smiled, relieved. Winked at Harry again, ruffled his hair gently. Nodded to the officer patiently and politely waiting just outside our huddle's hearing range, and he was off.

(Preview:)

Harry looked up. The officer, Sam, looked at me sideways, then got up and welcomed me in, with a reaching hand, though why it was out, stretched towards me I had no idea – did he expect me to hold it?


	3. Chapter 3, Part 1

**Raising Harry**

 **" Do not raise your children the way [your] parents raised you; they were born** for **a different time."(Ali bin Abi Taleb, 600 AD)**

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Chapter Three, Part One

 _"Gifts are dangerous when they are given [too often] but not earned" - ICARUS_

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#[1]

I felt …floaty. A bit fluttery. Giddy, happy, nervous; a bit like after a long-distance run gone well, that strange high- as I stared, coming back to the present, at the child detritus around me.

The room I was in – primarily the Little One's, when he was ready – was currently in the process of creation. A safe-haven, a clearing, a meadow, for his identity (person). Where he could breathe and just be. Magic, learning, safety, dreams, rest. That was the dharma of this Room and it's guardians; I am magic, but not all guardians are from it: spirituality, faith has its own power, sometimes.

The floor, teak, is covered in fluffy shag-rug and like the walls is a soft blue. Where it's not bordered in white that is. There are wall-length shelves, of differing depths, joining the floor as storage for twin woven baskets, as drawers.

These shelves, to take example of _just why_ this house was to be considered strange, exemplify to an observant – or nosy – onlooker, what about the current owner – to be occupants – was…different.

There is a shelf there just for any incense and for purifying and healing crystals. These crystal clusters can be spotted throughout the abode: they adorn the house, subtly. They hold books for Harry, magic and not, fables, fantasy and soon fact books. Another holds some 'child things,' away from reaching hands but not magic: wipes, creams, powder and nappies for toddlers (he should have learnt by now, but he will); and assortments.

These will also include a photo-album I hope to collect for Harry, of his parents and their family and friends what was good in their lives – friends, family, photographs and paraphernalia- anything we can get ahold of that's theirs, respectfully, appropriate for a child.

The slats bordering the shelves and underneath them, around the crystal arrangements are carved with delicate 'patterns'. Make no mistake, they are runes and sigils. Symbols of faith and power. On another? Is a Stone Guardian; at the door – not telling which-, an Earthen Golem – or Gargoyle, as they are known here as …Amongst others. Though I will say this: I do pity the fool who enters this house with ill-intent.

Now, onto the baskets which hold soft toys, slippers, socks, a woollen hat and an extra blanket. All charmed to keep warmth in and be waterproof.

There is a magical mobile I have begun crafting (as if a lot of the objects in this room were not crafted by mine own hands). It will be filled with magical, non-magical and mythological/plausibly real creatures and beings. Not to be mistaken as 'Beings' (that was an interesting concept to learn in this world; were-creatures, shifters, vampires, fae and the like not being considered equal to humankind). Though I am tempted to include them in a couple storybooks? They will all glow when in the darkness (a little at night) and be of colours vivid as oil paint amongst the Good.

In the light of day, their glow re-charging for protections, never truly dormant, is how it shall maintain the power to work. So far Kurma-ji (कूर्म ) the "World Turtle", will be there, amongst a mother Unicorn with her foal (a most protective and discerning pairing), an Elephant( for they are wise as well as honoured in my faith – reminiscent of Ganesh-ji), Ursa Major and Minor(because it would be cruel to separate a mother from her child – and Harry comes from the House of Black, so recognition is needed there and being in want of protection…well, it's a close enough link as to be probably granted; we're asking nicely), a Fox(they are clever yet playful), an Oliphant (they are mighty and strong), possibly…yes, possibly Jörmungandr (the World Serpent is watchful and of nature, not evil), maybe a monkey of some sort to accompany the Demiguise – and a Whale (again for might but a gentle nature, also of the sea).

Altogether something of each following: space and void, night sky and stars, wildlife, forest/tree, earth, sea, water and green and spirit and faith. Still needs something of sky/air and fire. Ah, a work-in-progress.

Nevertheless, I drew my attention back to the present. I sobered and looked at the small, worn iron beef-eater. One child's toy, slightly dented. But obviously precious. Freely given. It stood, watching me. I felt a flush of wet heat behind my eyes, pressing my fingers around my face, against my mouth. The little tot, Harry, had it on him when he'd been separated from his family. Some family. He'd yet to mention them once – to me or his current babysitters. Telling, that. And them: haven't even reported him missing. I bit my lip. Reworded it sounded no better: a family whom, several hours later, had yet to report him missing. I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion, clearing my blurred vision.

I felt my lips thin press flat. The toy – one of his only, or simply a favourite? Was in bad shape. I bit my lip again – Clearly, I need a stress ball- before sighing. When that did not work, I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath in, finding my centre. I like to imagine it as glowing pools cascading, trickling, flowing – some over invisible rock faces, but there's a collected pool in the centre, ripples crossing the surface from time to time. It glows in the black. White rippling light from within sometimes outlines the deep earth, some sort of cave. If I were to look in, two wolves existed – one good, one bad. Sometimes they co-exist, oftentimes they slept curled around each other – the 'good' might be awake, watching. Sometimes we caught gazes. Calm, those eyes are, so beautiful. It transcends the liminal space into me. Rarely, they fight.

Only then did I allow my eyes to snap open and to think again. Well, whatever the reason, I _had_ been awarded a court order for looking after him, being somewhat aware of him and that's what I would do. The strongest point in favour of this ruling, however, was Harry displaying an abnormal willingness and well, familiarity on top of this, with me. He wanted to go with me. I was willing and able, so once the Right Honourable Judge had determined that final part, I was granted full parental thankfully. It made things easier. I think I will keep in touch with the detective, however – updates could be useful.

Gifts are dangerous when they are given but not earned. – Icarus, indeed.

[Extract from a future Chapter:'Free Will']: _After the 1_ _st_ _wave, pre-Harry Era._

Do you know how strange it is, to speak in your _own voice_? The soul is eternal, though[2] they say the spirit lingers, the body withers/though the body ages, the spirit lingers. Sometimes, so do the memories.[3] We speak[4] a certain way.

It is not something -just, or- anyone would know. Unless _they_ had reincarnated. I remembered how to talk. So I talked. Exactly how I would have in my own body. Except, I wasn't in my own body. These were not my vocal chords – or, my old ones.

But…this was also my body. _My_ body – just not my first; I had grown in this one from the womb too; it modulated, subconsciously. [5] An instinct amongst many we are born with – and that, I noticed. It was different than my 'norm'[6]. My new body had to adjust further to meet the perception, expectation – whatever you want to call it- of my mind.

That was going to take some experimenting, I noted.

So it felt almost wrong to hear my own voice.

My body indeterminately mine and not/of questionable possession/autonomy. My mind felt awash with a palpable disconnect. My blurred sight found nothing interesting. I felt distanced, disinterested, from the world. I allowed a self-wrecking, pitying, dramatic sentiment to exist within me for five whole seconds…2, 1.

-The wonder was gone.- And moved on.

But 'it' would be found again. The grief, that was hard -No, no, come now girl. That is far too much of a stolid viewpoint, a narrow, filtered, over-reductionist conclusion to deride from such a potentially lush existence. I _could_ renew my mental – I paused, pondering the correct word for this…wholeness. I just had to work my way up. I would make a reason for my life, and continue on. As I always did. I could _help_ _here_.

In my past life, I had been a mage.

However, things were different there. From what I can gather, feel, sense, intuit – at least as far as my disciplined mind/behind my eyes can take me, magic systems varied. Nice to know.

The scene reminded me – and I flashbacked to an instance… where …Myself and five others used a protection spell for the sixth, centre ring, whilst the -late- seventh watched on, wretched and wracked with -agonised- sobs at our 'sacrifice' (it was a gamble though…and not in favour of …our _continued_ existence. Or life, even). We did live. We came back. But she hadn't read our letter/note – so she hadn't read to move us over, one position to the other. Silly thing, I couldn't help but recall fondly. So, that's how we came back in the wrong bodies. Figuring that out was difficult. There was a 'cat' (though some called her something else, that time), a "dog" (more literal than you would think), a "lazy 'realist'" (we concurred on this) whom might I point out was high and functioned only high, the liar/illusionist/espionage one(alternating epithets of good or bad depending on mood, place and people) and me- fear based lead'. What? I didn't want – to- think – nope.

But they might not vary that much.

 _Picking a Place_ was fun as long as I kept myself energised and full of stomach, before each trip, and after the second 'home visit' to find my 'perfect place', speaking to a more senior member on what I wanted in a letting agent. The man was professional, settled and human. By that I mean he treated me respectfully with regard to the brain in my head and an appropriate demeanour, was happy where he was and so was not one of the ambitious-salesmen types and apologised for my encounters with those who were thus far. It was a productive five minutes and made the rest of the trips much smoother. I sent a thank you note and a hamper.

I had lived in a flat, which was not as difficult as it would be in years time, provided this place truly was parallel, in London. It was a nice flat, even. But it was in no way suitable for a child – they grow, too, so definitely not. A move was needed. Hm, I need a place, I thought – my flat could hold Harry in it if I squeezed of course, but that just was not a feasible long-term plan (besides, the caseworker would visit soon enough)…Plus, that would undoubtedly be a tally point away from me keeping Harry, I acknowledge.

So: new place – it needs to be for Harry too, I thought, warming to the idea more now that that thought had occurred, finally. I started to imagine what we would need.

The house would have our bedrooms, toilet and bathroom and shower, ideally. A kitchen and living room obviously. A dining room or back house (an annex) would be cool – useful. Or room for one, so it can be built. A greenhouse or conservatory as well as keeping up a garden…I wouldn't make the same mistakes many make: we would have a study room so that there was a place to work for both of us.

 _Oh_ , I thought quietly. I had already chosen, then: it was to be a house. A flat could have worked - or a studio. But not now, apparently. Okay, then. Thinking suddenly on a magic school and owls and a letter, confused, addled, baffled (the poor dear) – with an overly-complex address; something like ' _Mr. H. Potter, The Green Manchurian, Block C, Floor 28, Suite 3, Room –'_ was just the ticket to crack through that quagmire of craggy-ness I'd swamped in a bit. It would be hilarious…but the _clearing up_. I shuddered.

And the search began!

I blinked. Placing the tardis blue flask cap-mug away and continued to the next point which was itinerary/a rubric, if you will. Which involves…

-Looking into primary schools – heck, he's what, three? For some hours a week, this year or next he could go to pre-school, kindergarten, or nursery or play groups. I blinked again. I could hold a playgroup. Sometimes. Couldn't I? I grinned. That would be so cute. Thinking back on other kids I'd babysat – it'd be good. Stressy but good. We'd see.

\- I'd also need to look into safe areas, with few – no pubs (not whilst he was this young; roudy people sleepless nights make and trouble tempts),

\- parks – some with play areas, would be good, others with a lake and trees to climb, wildlife, that sort of thing. Where's my San Fransisco? Where did I put the 'A-Z'? And the 'Yellow Pages' would help with an idea of services in the areas (childcare, things to do, shops) – and I'd be in need of (speaking with, gah) an/the other estate agent, I'd imagine. I'd rent this flat: it's a good site. Good thing I'm a bibliophile.

I sighed and got to work.

There were other thoughts for consideration, whilst I headed for my living space and dove under my settee, that contended for priority/mention to the decent estate agent: good shops, good food shops especially, things to do, decent people, cool places – though, being in London, it will have that already so – and the train continued, undeterred, conditions upon any place must be able to meet for the child and myself.

My brain, sometimes. I face-palmed mentally.

A little while after the Property Talk:

Harry was a quiet child. The Local Authority has given me /awarded me custody, temporarily - or well, until further notice, to be extended unless Harry's guardians were found, or he spoke of them. To go into more detail. So it wasn't decided yet, technically. But, again: for saying so little that said a lot. If, after the grace period - of a year, I was told, they do not speak up or cannot adequately show they have attempted to find him, reasonably, then full permanent (unsupervised) parental ('in loco parentis') custody in the form of guardianship, will be officiated. The Judge had 'done me a right one' – been awfully decent. I was grateful for Harry and myself.

With full parental rights a viable option depending on how well things can go, a short time after, will be awarded, that means. In the meantime, I will be able to act in loco parentis - but it might be that he is taken from me.

Harry hasn't spoken up about who cared for him yet. I think this will bother me for a while yet, but I will have to try not to think about it so much, soon. If that wasn't obvious enough, though, no bolo's or letters or pleas over the TV have been made through any of the normal channels - the police or media, by his previous guardians. Thank you, detective. PC Denning, our local contact ad infinitim, would work to keep eyes and ears open and let me know if anything concerning Harry cropped up. I made note, to pop over for a chat occasionally, and to give tea and some food, or something – for the hard work, it would only be right.

They...didn't seem to have done much guarding. The uncharitable thought halts there because; child or not, adults though they are- I aim to not judge yet. I get to take him home. I am grateful and cautious, nervous but also there is something soft as cotton, fluttering in my chest, warm and so so gentle for this little child. I hope to give him a good home. I hope nothing bad has befallen them.

E _lsewhere, an elderly lady, doddering about, meanders across a lawn to another and asks on the children. Mr. Twinkles has missed babysitting his green-eyes recently._

He is playing with plastic, beaten blocks, in primary colours. I gleaned, inside the kid's room in the Child Centre that had just finished testing him. It was old, but comfortable, this place. Thin but patterned carpets, a hospital's clinical-friendly distinct feel to it, with a large round white table centralised in the room with a plexiglass viewing panel. It – the table- was covered in A3 papers, ready for drawings from troubled, happy and quirky children alike: there were pens thick and various in colour in cups at the centre, and pencils for colouring, as well as shading pencils. A couple of small bean bag chairs dotted the space.

The nice lady, garbed in pastel green came to speak with me, with Harry so occupied.

I leaned further against the door jamb before stepping back from the doorway into the corridor

I was spending an awful lot of time in corridors, wasn't I? I amused myself briefly with the thought. Always in the middle of going somewhere. Which was better than being stuck.

The nice lady was coming to speak with - or to- me, which could only help. I was relying on her insight here. At the same time as the thought was in my mind/ with the thought still in my mind, I looked up, from the fun floor, and unintentionally caught her eyes. I smiled, but felt it fade, like a flower without the light withers.

She looked calm, but I had some experience with people. She would be smiling or her eyes would crinkle, or lips would not be slightly downturned like that, not someone like her, in this occupation, I felt with a spike of worry/concern, who obviously - from her office and her manner previous, and the obvious enthusiasm of her co-workers when 'reassuring' me on her character and reliability, earlier their obvious joy- loved her job.

She had something bad to tell me.

Or no, something worrying but not unexpected - she was not shocked blank, but grim a bit. Grim. Hm, it fit. I smoothed the worried look from my face.

She had reached me and obviously, I had not done as good a job as I hoped, because her arm came up and held mine, which was wrapped around my abdomen, clasped it, squeezing gently, before letting go. I felt some fondness flush through me. Such a kind one. I breathed. Slow deep breaths. It would be okay. Eventually, with enough time, it would be okay.

She looked at me, intentionally making eye contact now, and smiled (obviously the good news first), "he's a good child." She comforted. I blinked.

"I know." The small smile fought its way onto my face, and without my conscious okay - I found my eyes unconsciously glanced where he last was. Hmpf. Quite without my permission, mind. He still hadn't noticed. I let the reluctant smile grace my face. I have a long face, which suits misery - funnily enough- though no one had told this to my face before, I thought so myself. That tenderness warmed and gentled my eyes. "He is a good boy," I said, looking back, caught. Might as well own it.

She mirrored my smile, but there was a mischievous look about her, though her eyes were stronger, attempting to get a read.

I shrugged, a little sheepish. No need to play at casual now. "He's sweet." I defended. "But I know he's good." Unspoken was that she had no need to convince or tell me. "And even if he wasn't – right now- he's a child." I let the sentiment show more on my face. There, see what she'd make of that.

Oddly enough, she looked amused. Her face looked a little...elfen to it at that. Good for her, I couldn't help but think; the children would just welcome that face, one of their own, only full grown. I could only imagine the sorts of games they got up to. Her poor, poor co-workers.

We shared that silence together.

It was brief.

Sobering, she continued, "the- Harry, is showing signs of trauma. Not-" At my alarmed look she hastened to reassure, " with the right amount of work, it can be combated. "

My trust withdrawing, she must have seen the disbelief in my face because her platitudes stopped. Thankfully. Frankly, she spoke, " he is showing signs of trauma from before the accident. It's nothing concrete - we don't know how far it goes. How bad or not, it could be. But rather," and here she got a peculiar look on her face, before becoming frustrated slightly, "Harry has an absence of certain behaviours, and is exhibiting several indicators -

which is not a lot, as I said before- but show something has been not well in his home life previous."

"But! He is still young, which makes it easier in some ways a-"

"- and more difficult in others," we both finished. She beamed, relieved.

I nodded. Okay. The little one had some issues to work through. We could do that. My eyes sliced a path from her shins to her face. Now...only to get that information. Eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on her, I hawk-eyed her, raising my right brow. They're arched, I know the look works well. I needed information.

Seeing my look, and reading it correctly, she continued hurriedly, " I will detail all that I find in my full report for you - "

A good worker too this one, I was right. I smiled, warm and grateful. "Thank you. Could you highlight, take note of, -or tell me, any triggers or important potential things to watch out for or keep from doing?" Had to make sure I get all the trigger bits out of the way. Or learned how to find them, quick. Art would help that, but I wanted the little one to feel safe and cared for: not trapped or alone.

"Yes, he seems to ...like smaller spaces, the complete dark…" And like that, it went.

And like that, it went. We arranged another meetup, coffee, so that I could be filled in more and have any follow-up questions answered.

So – It went this way, yeah?

Harry had fallen asleep in the car on the ride back. He was very much awake now though, Namita thought, laughter tinging her thoughts. The boy was practically vibrating in his seats.

...He was actually vib- bouncing. A little. The cutie. I blinked a little bit too much and scoffed a laugh in my throat at the sight in my rear-view mirror. I then focused, like an adult, and parked my car.

"Harry," I called, soft and happy, "we are here now." I opened his side of the door, and took him out of the baby-seat. Holding him and then his hand once he was on the floor. He clutched my forefinger tightly. My other hand twisting, tight on a corner of his T-rex t-shirt. Which actually fit. I smiled at the little face peering up at me. 'Ye, this will be your home too.' I could not help but to give the silent admission sound, because; that look! Gods above me, give me strength.

Aw, clever boy. He was gauging my reaction, I felt with familiarising fondness. I wonder when he'll start pushing boundaries, like my patience. Hm. Unbuckling him from the booster seat, I picked him up and down, then held a mittened-hand. I walked us up to the door.

We passed the tomatoes, the flowers and little though he knew it - that anyone other than myself would know, for some time, a little herb garden. The brook bubbled softly, gurgled really, to dispense the energies and promote peacefulness.

I paused at the entry-way. I looked down at this little, sweet, curious (in spite of his background experiences so far, no doubt) ball of light and fluffy haired child, smiling. The scent of honeysuckle, lavender and wet grass permeating the air and crouched in front of him. I cradled, half holding his hands.

Harry looked curious despite himself, only somewhat meeting my eyes. Slowly, with my right hand, I raised my hand, I tipped his head up, gently, slowly, from his chin with my first two fingers, before replacing the hold. 'Eyes up, eye contact, Harry, with me,' I reminded softly. He met my eyes. Good boy, I thought. And then said, because, true there. That little face beamed.

"This is going to be your home. I hope that you like it Harry - " At his widened eyes, awestruck, and disbelieving still, oh sweetheart, we had a long way to go, I continued, intoning carefully and gently, but keeping eye contact so he'd know I was serious, I continued. "- If there is anything you would like to change, in your room especially, then let me know, okay, tot?" I finished a little happier - resisting the cheerfull default, trying to maintain a more serious tone, so that hopefully he would believe me: or believe me more quickly.

"Okay!" I chirped, leading him onwards. "Let's go in then."

Only, we got distracted. There was a visitor in our garden.

Harry still held my hand - right this time- as I unlocked the door, tardis blue, slightly behind me. I checked to make sure he was okay. I think he was holding his breath.

We walked in. A high-pitched gasp sounded behind me. Despite myself, my lip twitched on one side.

And it went in this way.

Years passed. Let me tell you how, for they really flew.

* * *

 **This chapter includes:** preparing a home, picking a place (moving or not?) – which involves looking into primary schools, safe areas, with no/few pubs, with parks and parks with play areas possibly with a lake and trees to climb, with good shops, good food shops and things to do, decent people, and cool places – though, being London, it will have had that already; it also includes: making connections (either prior and/or just before), ground rules, complications (where trouble is possibly in the works. Keep a weather eye), helping me set up (before complications) and advice of a parent (social, ethics, CT, faith, family).

Trying a new format - gah.

Edit 4: 06 -07/12/17

Edit 5: -09/12/17

* * *

[1] Oh, this was a glorious time. Not that it wasn't difficult, it was, especially at first, at that. Even after that. But of a different sort, later. You're looking at this, perhaps with a frown creasing your skin, bisecting your brows: confused, befuddled, bemused - aren't you?

I can't help but laugh... But no, don't take that the wrong way - I laugh with you, understanding your perspective exactly from that. You see, children, they're not static - their characters are...more. So that's how things changed. I almost feel I could write a book on all the experiences we've had so far. Oh, honestly: you'll see.

[2] Listening to Goblin OST - Han Soo Ji- _'Winter is Coming'_ (this is part of the writing playlist for this story, it fits a lot well).

[3] That was a reference to reincarnation: just so you know.

[4] Hehe- oh, don't mind me…the resonance is just killing me. Do you know how many old souls there are, that forget? How many people actually are reborn with some facsimile, some caricaturised carcass of memories of an old life, the affect those impressions have on a younger mind..? You'll see: read on.

[5] Think of an amnesia victim who still has habits they follow, little mannerisms or a set same vocabulary, even without the memory. Or a similar fixation or fascination of subject once (re-) introduced to it.

[6] My …previous norm?

[==1]A Reminder: I want to write a story where people are challenged, but make good decisions – even though terrible things outside of their control, or sad things, happen. So they deal with it properly – so it's not withoutstruggle. But it's full of goodness. Honest. True.


	4. Chapter 3, Part 2

**Raising Harry**

* * *

Chapter Three, Part 2: 

On Actually Raising The Child

* * *

Contrary to what you may have possibly concluded, I have not avoided the British Wizarding World[0]. As such. I have ventured there, on a few occasions but intentionally they have been brief, strict visits. I did not want to risk becoming a regular, predictable _or_ remembered.

Though initially, growing up here, that was for an entirely different reason than you likely could ever suspect. After all, I did not expect Harry-child coming into my care.

Namita sat. The floor, softwood, was covered with squares of shaggy rugs.

Namita stared at the assembled mess in front of her. Okay. Obviously, she was going to need some tools. Sighing, she tucked her errant fringe- outgrown now- behind her right ear as she got up. Time to get the kit.

Turning left down the short corridor, she took the route through the living room/kitchen combo to the cupboard in the utility room. Theseus gleamed, a bright poppin' candy apple red. If he could, he'd rumble-growl in pleasure, 'useful again...'. But Theseus was inanimate. So he couldn't. Plenty of objects in Namita's house, kept at least as long as Theseus, were in the same state: almost active, as so many objects oft left in the sphere of influence for so long of Wixen did, in fact, develop such quirks: purring, spinning, only working if something else was/not used also, or for only one person specifically - who happenstance would have it, had the focused emotions upon them, and whom supplied the magic ambiently soaking into the fibers of it's creation. The wrought iron crows and elephant and dare it be acknowledged...Mandir statues, could all attest to this. A newborn was coming. And there would be new family arriving, too. The Mistress was preparing even now, for them.

The house, still silent and asleep would grow from the ambient magics of both, and so owe equal allegiance to both - but that was another story. Namita's previous apartment could only wish it had such sentience as that.

But the garden... that is where summers, laughter-full and sun speckled, moonlight dowsed, flower-abundant, wildlife-visited, would truly become magical, as was only right.

Namita felt sad. This was okay, because the little one, washed up, fed and cuddled a little, was sleeping under his own watchful starry sky in their –it was decided, _no way_ was she leaving him alone in their new home- shared room. So she could be sad for a bit.

There was bruising. He was so small. Even for his age. And so, so delicate, - despite herself she felt some of the residual joy peak through her tiredness and dark thoughts, like the light he was.

Yes, he was delicate, but so very sweet; it felt far too early for it, but she'd gained, been gifted a small smile this day – when they spent some time in the garden amongst the flowers, and he was picking plants he'd like maybe. [1]

Namita was still in bed, sitting facing him on his own.

A breeze whispered into the room. It passed around her, almost fluidly, she shivered. It was fresh but also..warm. Sweet of scent, a flower of some sort fluttered in.

Little one's hair ruffled.

There was a familiar warmth, come to give him a hug, in his dream, suddenly. But, Harry realised something, in the glowing greens and pinks, blues, whites, reds, and the dark browns. That like the light dappling through the tree he sat under with Namita, this warmth…it had always been there for him. Most noticeably when he was alone and asleep. He did not remember it awake, but maybe this time he would?

He smiled so hard his face hurt. Turning to Namita he blushed at the happiness there, smiling at him. She was laughing, getting up. She wore a dress unlike any he'd seen before ever- and no shoes, she asked him to come to her, to dance. Dance?

And he was small but it was so fun and they wiggled, and then she got out these wooden big circles and they wiggled harder to keep them at their tummy level. It was good. Then there was juice and biscuits and then back to the plants. There were so many! It was amazing. Aunt Petunia and others on the street ( _Privet Drive;_ the thought cuts off.) have flowers, and he had thought they were a lot but they weren't, they _really_ weren't! And there was a special bit of hanging green vines, like ' _The Secret Garden_ ' that they started that night, with Namita– but he's not allowed to go there quite yet. Soon, when he's done here first. Because it's a secret special place for them only and it's magic.

He loved the plants. He hoped they love him too...There were all sorts for all over different parts of the land, from small almost bushes – moss and liken- on rocks and walls, little ferns with curly fluffy bits that had been around since the Dinosaurs or maybe earlier, delicate little flowers, yellow and white – buttercups and daisies, and clover and mint, and shoots to show there are plants under the ground growing too! Like potatoe, or ginger- but Namita said that was a root. To really tall plants – trees [2].

There was something about one of them, a grey-brown leaning, deep-lined plant, that had branches and leaves half climbers on the fence, around and along the green vines, with its purple hanging flowers…it shimmered a bit. It felt..more…awake? But he only noticed after watching a while. Namita let him, though she laughed – a good laugh, not at him but because of him, he found a secret in the garden already, wasn't he clever- and said it's part of the 'Secret Garden' bit. And, that there were more bigger and stranger plants hidden, just for us, that we couldn't see without permission yet. She was hoping we could receive it -permission- together from the old tree (Purana ped).

In one of our quiet moments, she drew something into the dirt, it's still there.

रक्षक

Rakshak

संरक्षक

Sanrakshak

Namita in the real world, draws the symbol, under a strange compulsion - no, an instinct or urge to do so, on his brow, next to the lightning [3] bolt. Namita jolts in surprise – Harry is smiling.

{ _Time Skip – a preview:_ }

Ms. N. K. Evans, preferably Namita, or possibly _Nami_ , lived on number 21, Occam Road, Surrey with her son Harry Potter, and they were proud to say that they _were_ a little weird and strange, thank you very much. In that, they liked to do and try things, kept irregular schedules and very of a very…mixed culture. Particularly at first, to newcomers that is, the recognition of this newness was iterated, that: yes, Ms. Evans _was_ _aware_ that her son's surname was different, that was _very much_ on purpose -indeed, yes!

After only a short while – not that "the Evans'"- as they were colloquially or jointly termed, were aware (or cared)- any twittering would usually sputter out, ending in a measly, insubstantial manner (if beginning properly at all).

They were the sort of people who liked to do things, new things - a lot of activities, and could be seen helping out in the community locally and London as a whole from time to time (especially the Ms; for 'causes and such'), even though they…it seemed, somehow… liked to keep to themselves a little, still.

Last year Ms N. K. Evans partook in a cycle route for charity, and Harry had helped take part in a couple charity sponsored runs with his school and over the summer. They liked to help _and_ pursue what they liked, and this was very apparent in their behaviour. Likewise, clearly apparent, Namita adored her son. So, did Harry - and the dog.

The dog loved Harry a lot. Must have imprinted, or so the neighbours said.

The 'poor boy', some said.

'That dog is huge – and a menace!' _So_ unlike them, they said. 'All big and dark and menacing, like.'

'Definitely a mix of some sort – Alsatian and Irish wolfhound?'

'Don't be ridiculous; clearly, it's Alsatian and dire wolf!'

At the twin sceptical and incredulous looks, this was hastily amended, '- w-well, it's just that the dog is so big; long, but not bulky, like a wolf, right?'

The Evans', still the newest on the street some years later, had borne a good life and were good proper people and a good proper family, was the consensus, generally speaking.

A good life for themselves, they had made certainly but they also kept one secret, that was part of their lives, their very beings and lifestyles!

…And soon, it would be tested to new heights to keep(and not because of magic like you possibly thought).

* * *

Suggested Playlist:

[0] Braveheart - James Horner and Hans Zimmer

[1] Titanic - Hymn to the sea

[2] Epic Orchestral Cover - Lion King Parademics

[3] Gladiator - Now We Are Free


End file.
